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COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT. 

































BLUE BEADS AND AMBER 














MARY 


VIRGINIA HARRISS 

ALTA T IX 







Blue Beads and Amber 


zA Child's *Book of Verses 

w> 

MARY VIRGINIA HARRISS 


With an introduction by 
William Kavanaugh Doty 




BALTIMORE 

The Norman, Remington Co. 


MCMXXIII 


"PS3515 

AwS-zBl* 

Copyright, 1923, by 

The Norman, Remington Co. 


Printed in the U. S. A. 


NON 24 '92' 3 

© Cl A7 65127 

| 



To 

MY MOTHER 

This Book is Affectionately Dedicated 




INTRODUCTION 

I. 

During the last five years a considerable in¬ 
terest has attached to those unusual and in¬ 
teresting children whom the public prints 
have been pleased to style child prodigies. 
Many of these have been noticed in both 
Europe and America—some as authors, some 
as musicians, and others as precocious stu¬ 
dents, athletes, mathematicians, and experts 
in games of skill. Almost invariably they 
have been dismissed with a brief word as a 
tendency of the times—symptoms of a mod¬ 
ern age that is no less productive of paradoxes 
than eager to end the old order. This atti¬ 
tude, however, is a mistaken one. These 
clever children may be symptoms, expres¬ 
sions, departures, arrivals, or whatever else 
the superficially minded may choose to call 
them: indeed, they are an expression of the 
modern attitude; but the responsibility for 
their coming upon the stage has, strangely 
enough, been misplaced by the critics. The 
[xi] 


INTRODUCTION 

source of the change, so called, this shifting 
of the shoe in this peculiarly upsetting age, 
is not to be sought m the children themselves, 
but rather in the grown-up people responsible 
for them. 

Modern psychology has rendered no service 
more significant than its investigation and in¬ 
terpretation of the child, his mind, body, and 
spirit. It has recognised and demonstrated 
that the child is, in truth, the father of the 
man. It has shown that child psychology is a 
valuable study, not alone for the light that is 
shed upon man at maturity, but also for the 
possibilities that have been revealed for the 
shaping and directing of the human life, while 
yet in its plastic state, for a wider future ac¬ 
tivity. By suppression and inhibition on the 
one hand, and by stimulation and encourage¬ 
ment on the other, it has been found possible 
to shape character not only, but also to de¬ 
velop personality and to increase the efficacy 
and quality of the natural tendencies by 
means of training and environment, which 
count for much as auxiliaries in the unfolding 
of heredity. 


[xii] 


INTRODUCTION 

Thus the child of to-day has had a more 
encouraging environment than the child of 
yesterday. He may now be heard as well as 
seen; and even though he has in some instances 
made too much of his new freedom, he may be 
excused, in some measure, for overstepping 
the bounds that have hedged him during so 
long a period of repression. 

Childhood is not the happy, care-free time 
that poets and other romanticists have pictured 
it. There are problems, longings, hopes, and 
disappointments then no whit less poignant 
than those of the after years. Perhaps they 
are yet more keen than the subsequent sensa¬ 
tions. Certainly the childish ability to com¬ 
pensate losses and to realise desires is less. 
Experience has not yet given that intellectual 
training that serves as a balance wheel for the 
instincts and emotions; and, as a result, they 
hold dominion untempered and unrestrained. 
This truth older people are beginning to real¬ 
ise, and children now, probably more than 
ever before, are being allowed an outlet 
through a varied expression of the teeming 
sensations of their mental and spiritual life. 
There is a sympathy, an understanding, in 


INTRODUCTION 

these days that allows and even encourages 
such expression; and through it a flood of light 
has been thrown directly upon the psychology 
of children and indirectly upon that of the 
race. 

It has thrown light upon the psychology of 
the race because the study of childhood in its 
spiritual, mental, and physical aspects has an 
illuminating bearing upon the general prob¬ 
lems of the human mind and its development. 
The principle of recapitulation—the theory 
that each individual retraces, though it be 
never so crudely, the steps in the evolution 
of the species—has its chief evidence in the 
carefully scrutinised development of the child. 
This development, as observation would seem 
to prove, is influenced more largely by he¬ 
redity than by environment. Special excel¬ 
lencies, particularly those highly specialised 
forms of mental activity which seek expres¬ 
sion in such activities as literature, music, 
and mathematics, are hereditary, and there¬ 
fore innate. They are nothing other than in¬ 
herited peculiarities, and are the result of 
inherited mental structures. The develop¬ 
ment of the child is, for that reason, but an 
[xiv] 


INTRODUCTION 

evolutionary unfolding of the latent potenti¬ 
alities, possibilities, innate in the child himself 
from his inheritance; and the problem of 
training, education in its wider sense, is the 
problem of recognising the native tendencies 
of the mind, and of perfecting and refining 
them by stimulation, direction, and restraint, 
exercised in a scientific and sympathetic man¬ 
ner. Environment thus may play its part— 
an important and indispensable part—but it 
is not the fundamental thing that inheritance 
is. It may colour and temper and strengthen, 
and so is worthy of the deepest consideration; 
but, in any case, it is but an auxiliary in the 
evolutionary process, whereby the actual in¬ 
dividual is discovered and matured. 

The purpose of education, its true function, 
then, is here introduced. It is important to 
discover just what the natural, the innate, 
tendencies are, what their normal course of 
development should be, and then by wise and 
patient direction and control to encourage the 
process of their spontaneous development by 
drawing out whatever excellences may be 
present from the long heritage of the years. 
It is important also to augment inherited 
[xv] 


INTRODUCTION 

tendencies in order to secure a maximum of 
growth that will insure a breadth along with a 
depth. And it is equally important in this 
connection to remember (as the new pedagogy 
does not) that a wholesome mental discipline, 
not too mildly exercised, is indispensable to 
good training. Encouraging natural tenden¬ 
cies is not to be confused with taking the path 
of least resistance, if a well-rounded person¬ 
ality, capable of the necessary conformity 
amidst the complexities of modern society, is 
to be achieved. 

There would seem to be scarcely any limits 
to the possibilities attaching to a mentality 
and a personality such as those of Mary 
Harriss. The study of childhood is yet but a 
child itself, however, just at the dawning of 
the scientific understanding of child training; 
and the subtle touch, whereby the nice dis¬ 
tinction in determining just where and when 
the stress for or against tendencies is to be 
laid, has not yet been acquired. 

The new attitude has revealed many young 
persons who have been listed as marvels for 
reason of some peculiar excellence. Amongst 
juvenile authors has the movement been espe- 
[xvi ] 


INTRODUCTION 

daily pronounced. Since 1918 a dozen vol¬ 
umes, at least, have appeared from the pens 
of child authors. Perhaps there are many 
more, if a complete record were had. 

Literary expression by children is by no 
means new, but it may well be doubted that 
any period has witnessed the publication of 
half so many books by these precocious 
artists as that between 1918 and 1923. Of all 
juvenile authors, Marjorie Fleming, born on 
the Firth of Forth in 1803, is the classic ex¬ 
ample. If others since her day had been 
favoured by the good fortune of a biographer 
with the sympathetic soul of Dr. John Brown, 
it is more than possible that this branch of 
literature would possess many more excel¬ 
lent specimens of the perfervid genius of 
childhood. 

Now appears this little book of verse by 
Mary Virginia Harriss. It is made up of 
verses written when she was four, nine, ten, 
and eleven years of age, and is an interesting 
contribution by a child to American litera¬ 
ture, besides being a valuable psychological 
contribution to the study of child life. 

[ xvii ] 


INTRODUCTION 

II. 

Mary Virginia Harriss is undoubtedly an 
interesting person, despite the brief toll of 
her years, and something by way of recount¬ 
ing her activities and describing per person¬ 
ality can not be considered as coming amiss in 
this connection. 

She was born 20 October, 1911, at Saint 
Louis, Missouri, the younger of two children 
of John William and Virginia (Powell) Harriss. 
In her veins is a mingled strain of blood; but 
she is sprung, for the most part, from British 
ancestry, chiefly English and Scottish. Her 
father’s ancestors, of English and Scotch- 
Irish origin, were early colonists of Virginia 
and Carolina, and were among the first set¬ 
tlers of Western Tennessee. On the part of 
her mother, her ancestors were English, with 
a strain of Scotch-Irish, who came to America 
from the northern part of England, settled in 
Virginia, and thence removed to Kentucky. 

Although born at Saint Louis, where she 
spent the first five years of her life, and al¬ 
though she has resided since at Chicago, 
Saint Louis, and Baltimore, Mary Harriss has 
been reared amid the influences of the South- 
[ xviii ] 


INTRODUCTION 

ern tradition of cultivation and idealism. 
The customs, manners, and ideals of the South 
have been the dominant forces of her environ¬ 
ment. Among her antecedents have been 
those who were gifted in music, oratory, and 
authorship—people with a facile touch, with 
imagination, and with magnetic qualities. 
This inheritance explains sufficiently her strik¬ 
ing gift of expression, just as her environment 
explains her gentle bearing and sweet tem¬ 
pered attitudes. 

Mary Harriss is a sweet looking child, not 
less than an interesting and intelligent one. 
If she is less than beautiful, she is more than 
pretty. Her slim graceful body is almost 
boyish in its slender strength and straightness. 
She has a mass of thick bobbed golden hair, 
fine dreamy blue eyes, and a large, well¬ 
shaped mouth. With her white skin, her pale 
pointed fingers, and her fragile strength, she 
presents a picture that is rarely excelled. 
Marjorie Fleming might have written of her, 
and not of her own “dear Love Isabella”, 

Her skin is soft , her face is fair , 

And she has very pretty hair . . . 

Her nails are neat , her teeth are white , 

Her eyes are very , very bright; 

In a conspicuous town she lives , 

And to the poor her money gives. 

[ xix ] 


INTRODUCTION 

In manner she is almost timid, giving at 
first the impression of shyness; but this is 
soon dissipated upon better acquaintance. 
She is vibrant with feeling, enthusiastic, and 
sentient with young life. Her curiosity ex¬ 
tends to all things of interest to an acquisi¬ 
tive mind, and an enquiring activity leads 
her far afield in the waking hours of each day. 

The interests and undertakings of her life 
have been many, but she has not allowed 
anything to interfere with an excellent record 
at school. Her first experiences in the school¬ 
room were had at Saint Louis, where she en¬ 
tered kindergarten at the age of five. She 
attended school at Chicago also, and later at 
Baltimore, where she has completed the sixth 
grade. Her reports are always above re¬ 
proach, usually admirable. In addition, she 
has studied French under a private tutor and 
has taken a course in eurythmics at the 
Peabody Institute, of Baltimore. 

Her poetic turn manifested itself at an 
early age. The first of her verses, com¬ 
posed at the age of four years, became a 
part of the family tradition, and so were pre¬ 
served. Unfortunately no effort was made 
[xx] 


INTRODUCTION 

to remember and record others, doubtless of 
equal worth. It was not until the young poet 
was nine years old and could write her own 
compositions that the process of verse crea¬ 
tion was renewed. She cared little for the 
study of music, and promised her mother 
that, if not compelled to take lessons in music, 
she would write instead. The offer was ac¬ 
cepted and the contract made. Shortly after¬ 
wards at school her teacher assigned as an 
exercise in English the composition of a poem, 
to be written in fifteen minutes, and gave a 
choice of two subjects, Sunrise and Sunset . 
Mary Harriss chose the second and wrote the 
verses by that title. The teacher asked if 
she had written them, called in the principal 
for his approval, and told Mary Virginia that 
she should take them home to her mother. 
Thus a career was definitely launched. It 
has continued without interruption up to 
now; but as the young lady has resolved to 
be a naturalist, in order to write of the won¬ 
ders and beauties of the natural sphere, it is 
possible that the world will lose an Elizabeth 
Barrett to gain a Mme. Curie. 

Science, as yet, has not limited her atten- 


INTRODUCTION 

tion and sympathy. One of her most lasting 
interests has been in dramatics. As a mem¬ 
ber of The Little Players, of Baltimore, she 
has taken prominent roles in various plays, as, 
for instance, the part of Sir Mortimer in 
Shadow Plays; that of Hans in The Pied 
Piper; and the more ambitious role of An- 
drocles, the mock-heroic little tailor, in George 
Bernard Shaw's play, Androcles and the Lion . 
It seems to be her gift to interpret the char¬ 
acter of her parts with more than childish 
ability; to enter into the spirit, the humour, 
of the particular part, bringing our subtle 
touches of pathos, bathos, comedy, or tragedy, 
as the need may be. Just now she is going 
further into dramatic technique by construct¬ 
ing and operating a little theatre of her own. 

Strangely enough, she has never cared for 
dolls, or for any of those petty trifles and 
gewgaws that are supposed to be the especial 
delight of the feminine mind and taste. “I 
am afraid I do not care much for clothes," 
she once remarked, “and I do not believe 
that I ever shall.” She likes much better the 
sports, toys, and pastimes of boys than those 
of girls; things that move and have being, 


INTRODUCTION 

and games of action, please her most. Coun¬ 
try is preferable to city in her way of thinking, 
and the great out-of-doors with birds, flowers, 
trees, animals, the ocean, boats, skating, fish¬ 
ing, swimming,—these are the things that she 
loves best. She once said that if she were 
allowed to pick seven things of all others, 
books excepted, that she would prefer for her 
own amusement, she would choose a pony, a 
dog, a bicycle, a boat, a scutter car, a kite, 
and a goat. Strange companions these for a 
child of such exquisite taste and refined feel¬ 
ing, of such gift for the facile expression of the 
influence of the beautiful. 

A passion for freedom, however, would ex¬ 
plain these tastes. Freedom with Mary 
Harriss is almost a fetish—freedom of thought, 
freedom of action, freedom of spirit. The 
conventions of society she believes in many 
instances to be senseless and superficial; and 
many of the ills of modern life, not less than 
many of the blessings, are, in her estimation, 
traceable to civilisation: but with it all, she is 
constructive in her criticism, always con¬ 
scious of the rights of others in believing and 
acting as they choose. 

[ xxiii ] 


INTRODUCTION 

Books, as might not be supposed from the 
preferences listed previously, are a special de¬ 
light to Mary Harriss, probably her chief 
delight. She is omnivorous in her reading. 
Books of all sorts and sizes come in for her 
critical estimate and enjoyment. Fairy tales, 
poetry, and adventure stories would very 
likely stand first in her lists, although she 
reads many others. Kipling, Mark Twain, 
Lewis Carroll, Lowell, Browning, Hans An¬ 
dersen, the Brothers Grimm, Andrew Lang, 
and Shakespeare come first in her choice. 
The Just So Stories and The Jungle Book , 
one and two, she would select from Kipling; 
of Mark Twain's works, Tom Sawyer and 
Huckleberry Finn , naturally enough, are fa¬ 
vourites, but her liking for A Connecticut 
Yankee at the Court of King Arthur is less to 
be expected, and even less than that, The 
Mysterious Stranger , which is one of her best 
liked books. She would make little distinc¬ 
tion between Lewis Carroll's Alice in Won¬ 
derland, Through the Looking-glass , and The 
Hunting of the Snark . She likes them all. 
And she likes all poetry—the sentimental 
love poetry less than any—and all fairy tales. 
[ xxiv ] 


INTRODUCTION 

All of the fairy tales of Andersen, of the 
Brothers Grimm, and all of those in the 
coloured fairy books of Andrew Lang, not to 
mention several minor collections, have been 
read once, and often reread. Lowell's The 
Vision of Sir Launfal , and Browning’s The 
Pied Piper are first in favour among numerous 
poems, and Romeo and Juliet is somewhat 
liked, despite its romantic love scenes. Ste¬ 
venson s stories, in especial Treasure Island 
and Kidnapped , form an indispensable part 
of this critical young lady’s library. When 
she is not roaming lawns, climbing trees, or 
directing her tiny playhouse, it is safe to seek 
her in some cosy chair or cuddled in some 
pleasant corner, where, either as an interested 
spectator or as an invisible participator, she 
enters through her books the magic realm of 
gold to join the colourful heroes and heroines 
of other times and climes, who know both 
trials and triumphs and have moods both 
grave and gay. 

No wonder her observations are so swift 
and sure, with an experience so varied 
through the lives of the characters in her be¬ 
loved books. Through their eyes she has 
[ xxv ] 


INTRODUCTION 

seen many lands; through their feelings she 
has had a varied emotional experience; and 
by their aid she can well view her own world 
with more than the eyes of a child. Through 
them also has come a mastery of her own 
language that is quite extensive for one so 
young; and her many moods find expression, 
ample and clear, in her practical and aesthetic 
vocabulary, stored up in the genial com¬ 
panionship of her books. 

The wild love of freedom, which in many of 
her verses has found expression,—freedom 
from convention, from school, from life in 
cities, from hypocricies, and from other rules 
attributed to a conspiring civilisation , not 
omitting skirts and bathing suits, so utterly 
worthless and annoying—might long since 
have assumed a tragic significance but for her 
sense of humour, sense of justice, and recogni¬ 
tion of expediency. These possessions have 
lifted her over many’s the vexing problem. 
Some things simply must be because they 
must, and people are funny, anyway. This 
humour of hers is ever lurking in the back¬ 
ground, to be revealed in flashes at times the 
least expected. To the solemn question, 
[ xxvi ] 


INTRODUCTION 

“Do you ever read Shakespeare?” her ready 
reply came with a twinkle in the eye: “Oh, 
yes. As Mr. Jiggs said to Mr. De Jected, ‘I 
read Shakespeare's works as fast as they are 
published. ’ What a question to propound 
to a well-read young lady of the sixth grade! 
The answer would have checked a less per¬ 
sistent admirer. The humour of situation, 
quite as much as the humour of word and 
phrase, attracts her. Many a funny story is 
garnered from the events of each day, to be 
remembered and recounted later with irre¬ 
sistible zest. 

All things and animals have souls where 
Mary Harriss is concerned. Her communion 
with Nature is full and intimate. She is not 
dependent upon human beings for compan¬ 
ionship. Not at all. Trees and dogs will do 
quite as well. In fact, she has few illusions 
left about people. Human nature she can 
read in a way almost uncanny for a child. 
But with it all, she is yet a child; and, 
strange to say, she wishes to remain one for 
ever. There is the feeling, perhaps, though 
unexpressed even to herself, that now is the 
happy season, free of too much responsibility 
[ xxvii ] 


INTRODUCTION 


and full of care-free existence in overalls atop 
the trees, or in a bathing suit on the sandy 
beaches of the Bay. Wordsworth might have 
meant her when he wrote: 

Loving she is, and tractable , though wild; 

And Innocence hath privilege in her 
To dignify arch looks and laughing eyes; 

And feats of cunning; and the pretty round 
Of trespasses , affected to provoke 
Mock-chastisement and partnership in play. . . . 

. . . this happy Creature of herself 
Is all-sufficient; solitude to her 
Is blithe society , who fills the air 
With gladness and involuntary songs. . . . 

Ill 

The verses in Blue Beads and Amber need 
little analytical comment. They are their 
own best introduction, and clearly speak for 
themselves. But it will do no harm to point 
out their distinctive qualities, thus emphasis¬ 
ing their pronounced modernity and intense 
mode. 

The vast problems arising from the theories 
of metre and verse are too extensive and com¬ 
plicated for discussion here. They have not 
[ xxviii ] 


INTRODUCTION 

concerned Mary Harriss, and they need not 
concern an introduction to her verse. She is 
a poet rather than a mechanical creator of 
accurate and rigid verse forms. She instinc¬ 
tively achieves the effects and results of her 
verses through feeling more than through 
conscious effort, although her manuscripts 
with much elimination and interlining show 
that, like all true poets, she can pick and 
choose with discretion. With much justi¬ 
fication, she might be classed as a modern 
primitive. Her verses are distinctly written 
in the new mode. Her manner for that very 
reason enables her to touch hands with the 
ancients in the spirit of friendly under¬ 
standing. The King James Version of the 
Bible and translations from the Chinese are 
suggested by her simple and direct expression. 
Indeed, one of the most interesting aspects 
of these poems is their attainment largely of 
the modern ideal of the New Poetry by a 
natural process of expression in which self- 
consciousness is at the minimum and sponta¬ 
neity at the maximum. They are, in a sense, 
unconscious, therefore instinctive. Mary 
Harriss resembles, in so far as a child may, the 
[ xxix ] 


INTRODUCTION 

new poets in the attained result; but she 
differs from them widely in the method. Her 
literary kinship with Eunice Tietjens, Edna 
St. Vincent Millay, Amy Lowell, Marjorie 
Seiffert, Aline Kilmer, and others of the 
modern school is the kinship of temper and 
tone achieved, not of method and means of 
achievement. She may arrive at much the 
same goal, achieve much the same effect; 
but by what different ways! Her product is 
that of a naive sophistication; theirs of 
a sophisticated naivete. Hers is the bird's 
song; theirs the meditated melody. 

These verses in the new mode have, as real 
poems of the new mode must, a freedom 
from artificiality. They are direct, simple, 
and unaffected. They have, moreover, as 
not all verses of the new mode do, the de¬ 
sirable virtues of the trinity of form, propor¬ 
tion, and emotional idea. The possession of 
these qualities, according to Sir Rabindranath 
Tagore, is the true test of true poetry. 

In verse form they differ. Vers libre comes 
in for its share of attention, but the more 
formal specimens of verse in metre and rime 
are not excluded. There is no inconsistency in 
[ xxx ] 


INTRODUCTION 

this: many writers of the New Poetry retain 
both rime and metre; and the spirit of the 
movement may still be retained, not because 
of them, but in spite of them. Those things 
placed in the discard are the affectations— 
inversion, transposition, irrelevant and high 
sounding allusions, stilted diction, shifts and 
contractions of language, and the innumerable 
other rhetorical pomposities and excesses. 
Simplicity and sincerity are the keynotes of 
the New Poetry, if its champions are to be 
believed, and these qualities Mary Harriss 
has put into her verses. Her diction is that of 
a child, and hence is unstereotyped; it is the 
diction of a child, and so is intensive rather 
than extensive; it is the diction of a child, 
and is, consequently, contemporary instead 
of archaic. When rime is used, it is used not 
slavishly, but temporately. It is also un¬ 
stereotyped, and suggests in kind, if not in 
degree, the new freedom inaugurated by 
Shelley and Keats and Poe. 

Whether Walt Whitman were or were not 
the father of the modern school of poetry, he 
had all of its faults and few of its virtues. 
His senseless jargon and meaningless ejacu- 
[ xxxi ] 


INTRODUCTION 

lations rarely rise to the heights of poetry; 
but he will be remembered for having done 
much to break the too rigid shackles by a 
revolution that amounted to anarchy. He 
helped to make poetry objective rather than 
subjective; to give to it concreteness of object 
and environment rather than the old ab¬ 
stractions of introspection and allusion. This 
the New Poetry does; this the poetry of 
Mary Harriss does: and she is stamped by 
it as a thorough-going modern and an out- 
*and-out primitive. Her naturalness is natural . 
It places her among the moderns, therefore, 
in the effect, but it unites her as well with the 
primitives in the means. 

An idea of Oriental verse has been given 
recently by several volumes of picturesque 
translations of Chinese poetry, notably those 
by Arthur Waley, Amy Lowell, and Shige- 
yoshi Obata. The New Poetry is responsible 
for their appearance in English, and has been 
tremendously influenced by their appearance 
in return. It is interesting to see how great 
the resemblance in form and method is be¬ 
tween many of the translations from the 
Chinese and the poems in Blue Beads and 
[ xxxii ] 


INTRODUCTION 

Amber . This striking similarity is particu¬ 
larly evident from a comparison of such 
selections as Looking at the Moon after Rain y 
The Heaven s Gate Mountains , and Word- 
Pattern by Li T’ai-Po, On Seeing a Distant 
View of Chung-Nan Mountain by Po Chu-i, 
Flowers and Moonlight on the Spring River 
by Yang-ti, Boating in Autumn by Lu Yu, 
and The Waters of Lung-T'au by Hsu Ling 
and those poems by Mary Harriss called 
Sky Pictures , Sunrise , Butterflies , The Orchard , 
and Autumn Leaves . Each contains the in¬ 
tensive singleness of idea, the concreteness of 
object and environment, and the directness 
of language and form that go to give to 
modern poetry whatever distinction it may 
possess. 

The proportion of these poems is another 
point of excellence. It matters not if the 
purpose be merely to paint a picture, to reveal 
a situation, or to convey an emotional idea; 
there is generally that tendency toward pro¬ 
portion. In The Making of Our Clothes y If 
I Had My Way , The Doll without a Name , 
Wild Horses , Springs and The Ocean Waves 
is indicated that nice feeling for proportion. 

[ xxxiii ] 


INTRODUCTION 

Totality of effect is obtained both by simplic¬ 
ity of structure and the absence of the super¬ 
fluous word. In some instances there is only 
the one division, setting forth the one idea; 
in most there is a dual form, the first half 
laying the way for the second; in some, as in 
The Making of Our Clothes , there are three 
divisions; in others there are more: all, how¬ 
ever, are closely related, and have a unity of 
purpose, idea, and mood. 

Even more skillful is the attainment of the 
emotional idea in these verses. Mary Harriss 
is a-tingle with sentiment, and this trait, 
coupled with her keen observation, enables 
her to impute the proper feeling in most in¬ 
stances and to estimate the emotional value 
inherent in things, situations, and ideas. In 
some she discovers sheer happiness; in others, 
the various simple and complex emotions of 
elation, wonder, anger, admiration, gratitude, 
pity, and sorrow. Love of her mother, pity 
for the poor little Dandelion Man, the joy 
of spring, the gratitude for kindness, and the 
wonder in the awakening of the apple seed 
are typical illustrations that indicate the 
possession of feeling and the power to express it. 
[ xxxiv ] 


INTRODUCTION 

The themes treated are those best suited 
to the experience of a child. Nature in its 
visible forms occupies the principal place of 
interest. Leaves and flowers, trees and 
streams, woods, fields and pastures, clouds 
and winds, birds and bees, the moon, sun, and 
stars,—all of these come in for treatment. 
The supernatural world with its elves and 
fairies and witches and angels rivals the 
physical world in the number of allusions. 
Abstract ideas are treated in connection with 
concrete things. Freedom is an ideal, as 
shown in Wild Horses and If I Had My Way; 
gratitude is expressed in the verses called 
Boats and Mother , though not mentioned as 
such. The ocean, the bay, and boats are ex¬ 
pected themes for a child who so loves freedom 
and vast spaces and the grace of movement. 
There is, of course, little of the purely senti¬ 
mental; and for the same reason, an absence 
of themes that are purely ratiocinative in 
character. These are not only prior to her 
stage of development, but they also are not 
such stuff as would delight the heart of a poet. 

What the future may hold for this young 
poet and what this young poet may hold for 
[xxxv] 


INTRODUCTION 

the future, no one can say. Bright days are- 
reasonably to be expected if there lies any 
merit in divining the times to come by those 
that are gone. But that really is of little 
moment, after all is said, for Mary Harriss 
has already won sufficient recompense of the 
gods by bringing untold happiness to her 
friends. That is the measure of success. 
She is one of those rare spirits who pass in¬ 
frequently through this earth in a film of 
glory to keep alive man's faith in the dream 
of Immortality. 

W. K. D. 

United States Naval Academy 
Annapolis , Maryland 
23 August , 1923 


[ xxxvi] 


BLUE BEADS AND AMBER 









CONTENTS 


I. EARTH, MOON, AND STARS 

Prophecy.45 

Sleep.46 

Discovery.47 

Golden Balls on Silver Threads 48 

II. SONGS FROM A PEAR TREE 

The Pear Tree.51 

Sunset.52 

Mother .53 

The Bay . . 1.54 

Rain.55 

Clovers .56 

If I Had My Way.57 

The Moon.58 

The Doll Without a Name . . 59 

Elves .60 

Birds ..61 

A Picture.62 

III. WINGS OF THE WIND 

Leaves.65 

The Orchard.66 

[ xxxix ] 


















CONTENTS 


Pansies.67 

Butterflies .68 

Spring.69 

I Shall Sometime Have a Farm . 70 
The Apple Seed's Awakening . 71 
The Woods 

I. The Flowers . 72 

II. The Brook .73 

III . The Trees .74 

Spring Flowers .75 

The Dandelion Man.76 

Where I Want to Live .... 77 

Buttercups.78 

Sunrise .80 

My Farm 

I. The House . 81 

II. The Field and Pasture . .82 

III. The Woods .83 

On First Seeing the Washington 

Monument.84 

Boots .85 

The Storm.86 

The Ocean Waves.87 

Boats .88 

I Think It Is a Dreadful Thing . 89 

Autumn Leaves.90 

[xl] 




















CONTENTS 

The Fairy’s Boat.91 

Wild Horses.92 

Autumn.93 

Mother’s Day.94 

The Making of Our Clothes . 95 

Sky Pictures.96 

The Clock.97 

IV. THE SEA AND SKY 

The Black Cloud.101 

A Storm.102 

The Sun’s Bedtime.103 

The Fairy Banquet.104 

A June Morning.106 

Night on the Bay.107 

Seaweed.109 

Phosphorous.110 

White Caps .Ill 

A Drop of Water.112 

A Shell.113 

Jack Rabbit’s Adventure . . .114 

Bees.115 

Questions .116 

The Sun’s Helpers.117 

The Bulb.118 

I’ve Counted My Beads . . .119 

[xli] 





































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EARTH, MOON, AND STARS 
Four Years Old 









PROPHECY 


AM all the smaller I can get , 
All the bigger on a bet . 


[ 45 ] 


SLEEP 


S ITTING on the chair 

Swinging my legs so gay: 
When I turned around 
It was the next day! 


[ 46 ] 


DISCOVERY 


I 'VE just discovered something 

About the earth on which we live: 
It's a big round ball 
On which we crawl 
Or walk, according to ourselves. 


[ 47 ] 


GOLDEN BALLS ON SILVER THREADS 


M other, dear, 

How does God bring out the moon at 
night 

And hide it away by day? 

And what does He do with the stars 
When morning light puts them to flight? 

Are they like golden balls on silver threads 
hung? 

Does He just bring them out 
For the dark night, 

Then draw them up one by one 
When daybreak comes? 


[ 48 ] 


SONGS FROM A PEAR TREE 
Nine Years Old 






















































































































































































































































■ 













THE PEAR TREE 


T HERE is a pear tree in our back yard; 

It’s big and tall and wide. 

It has so many leaves on it, 

That's where I like to hide. 

Sometimes when it is nice and still, 

I take a book up there. 

One of the limbs on which I sit 
Has a back like an easy chair. 

I call to people as they pass 
Underneath the tree; 

The branches are so thick and leafy 
That they can not see me. 


[ 51 ] 


SUNSET 


)^TMS sunset in the country 
JL And all the bleating sheep 

Are brought home from the pasture 
And soon are fast asleep. 

The farmer is shutting the gate 
That leads to the garden bowers, 

For even the rose is fast asleep, 

The Rose, the queen of all flowers. 

The bees are in the beehives 
All ready for the night; 

They have made their honey, poor bees! 
Being robbed is no delight. 

Cuddled right down in their nest, 

Kept warm by their mother bird, 

The baby brood has gone to rest 
As the hoot of an owl is heard. 

The horses in the stable 
As quiet as can be; 

The streamlet singing softly 
Goes on from tree to tree. 


[ 52 ] 


MOTHER 


T HINK first of your mother 
Before you act or speak, 

For you can not find but one mother 
No matter how far you seek. 


THE BAY 


T HE water forever is moving 

On the quietest summer day . 
Ever since the Mischief Fairy 
Threw the keys away. 


[ 54 ] 


RAIN 


T HE thing that seems so strange to me 
Is that the rain can chatter; 

But the strangest thing of all is that 
It can only say pitter-patter . 


[ 55 ] 


CLOVERS 


T HERE are many purple clovers 
Over in the park. 

I picked some just last Sunday 
As it was growing dark. 

I took the clovers home with me 
And put them in a vase; 

Each looked at me most kindly 
With its little purple face. 


[ 56 ] 


IF I HAD MY WAY 


I WOULD always be swinging on gates 
Fd swing and swing all day, 

And I would never go to school 
If I had my way. 

Fd be playing all the night, 

Fd be playing all the day . . . 

Fd never stop for work 
If I had my way. 

Mother said I couldn’t eat or sleep, 
But I just say Ho! Hey! 

I would not have to eat or sleep 
If I had my way. 


[ 57 ] 


THE MOON 


L AST night I looked out of my window 
And the moon was round and bright; 
It seemed like a great ship sailing 
On a sea of misty light. 

The white clouds are the sea; 

The moon is the golden boat 
That has no chance of sinking, 

But always remains afloat. 


[ 58 ] 


THE DOLL WITHOUT A NAME 


I 'VE a little doll without a name 
That stands upon a table; 

I sometimes call her Dorothy, 

I sometimes call her Mabel. 

Once she fell into the mud, 

But I liked her all the same. 

As soon as she was washed again, 

. I then gave her a name. • 


[ 59 ] 


ELVES 


I LIKE to read of fairies 

And of wicked little elves . . . 

Of what happens to little girls at night 
Who go out by themselves. 

I read in a book the other day 
Of how the king and queen 
Had run away in the midst of war 
And escaped without being seen. 

But a king should always lead his troops 
And never run away; 

So the wicked elves got this bad king 
On this weary warsome day. 


[ 60 ] 


BIRDS 


T HERE are many birds that come to feed 
On the bread that we throw out. 

There are robins, pigeons, and blackbirds, 
And sparrows and crows all about. 

There’s one family of little robins 
Being taught to fly ... 

I sometimes wish that I also 
Could sail away so high. 


[ 61 ] 


A PICTURE 


W E’VE a picture on our wall 
Of mountains and of trees, 

Of a lake of graceful ripples 
Made by a calm soft breeze. 

The sky has the loveliest colours 
Of the most delicate blue and pink. 
The picture belongs to Mother; 

She got it for Christmas, I think. 

The high chains of mountains 
Are capped with snow 
And look quite splendid 
From the shores below. 

Now this beautiful lake 
That I have described, 

Surrounded by mountains and trees, 
Is far away in Canada.— 

It is fair Lake Louise. 


[ 62 ] 


WINGS OF THE WIND 
Ten Years Old 






LEAVES 


T HE leaves are blowing everywhere, 
Dancing and floating,— 

A rainbow on the earth . . . 

Green leaves, yellow leaves, red leaves . . . 
They look like hundreds of tiny birds 
Flying about on the wings of the wind. 


[ 65 ] 


THE ORCHARD 


T HE orchard is full of blossoms 

Dancing around like the fairies 
So wild and free . . . some pink, some 
white . . . 

Some lie sleeping on the green moss carpet: 
Wherever the little breezes go, 

There go the apple and cherry blossoms 
Riding the wind horses around, 

Spreading the earth with their sweet scent, 
Filling the world with joy and beauty. . . . 


[ 66 ] 


PANSIES 


P ANSIES' feet are green, 

Their eyes are blue; 

Their yellow skin is soft as velvet . . 
They look as if they are scolding you 


[ 67 ] 


BUTTERFLIES 


G REAT butterflies are sailing all around 
Like thoughts floating silently through 
the air. 

Their brown wings with black dots on them 
Are like the sails of the fairy ships 
As the wind carries them up, up, up in the 
sky. 


[68] 


SPRING 


F LOWERS are waking up, 

Birds are coming back . . . 

They make the world look and sound 
Like a coloured music box . . . 

Spring is comings coming! 

The brook is happily singing 
As the green trees spread their branches o'er it. 
The flowers, trees, birds, and the brook 
Cry the great secret the wind told to them— 
Spring is here! Spring is here! Spring is here! 


[69] 


I SHALL SOMETIME HAVE A FARM 

I SHALL sometime have a farm . . . 

A little brown cottage . . . 

The path leading to it 
Lined with violets. 

The wall will be of weeping willows— 
Their graceful, tearful limbs 
Will shade the roses 
From the hot sun. . . . 


THE APPLE SEED’S AWAKENING 


U NDER the ground where it is always 
night 

And there is no ray of the sun’s lovely light, 
A seed lies dreaming of when he shall be 
A beautiful tall green apple tree. 

He, of the seeds, is most anxious of all 
To hear the sunbeam’s happy call 
Of Wake up! Wake up! 

Spring is here! Spring is here! 

As he lies dreaming, a cry is heard— 

A cry to the weeds, 

A cry to the seeds . . . 

Father Sun has sent his rays 
To say that snow no longer stays. 

The seed lets his little shoots run 
Into the world to greet Father Sun 
For his mother . . . The spring is here! 


[ 71 ] 


THE WOODS 
/. The Flowers 

T HE woods are full of flowers . . 

They talk to me: 

The Arbutus tells me 
Where she got her fragrance; 

The Violet tells me 

Where she got her colour. . . . 

All the flowers laugh 
And bow to each other. 


[ 72 ] 


THE WOODS 
II. The Brook 

A LITTLE brook runs through the woods 
On his happy way to the sea. 

He chatters to the sand and pebbles: 

He tells them of the things he has seen— 

Of the children who have sailed boats in him, 
Of the animals who drink his water. 


[ 73 ] 


THE WOODS 


III. The Trees 

T HE woods have many kinds of trees. 
They spread their branches o’er the 
flowers— 

They shade the flowers and the brook . . . 
Their many green tongues are never still . . . 
They sing the baby birds to sleep. 


[ 74 ] 


SPRING FLOWERS 


F LOWERS all are waking up,— 
Daisy, rose, and buttercup, 

The yellow, pink, and white, 

Make the world look warm and bright. 

Spring is coming, 

Violets are in bloom; 

Spring is coming . . . coming . . . 

The birds will come back soon . . . 
Spring is coming . . . coming! 


[ 75 ] 


THE DANDELION MAN 


S I walked along in the woods by the 



JljL brook, 

In a place where the bank was low, 

I saw a cool shady nook 
Where a little man stood 
In green from top to toe. 

His hair was yellow and very bright— 

It stood out around his face like a fan . . . 

I knew it was the Dandelion Man. 

I came to see him the very next day: 

His yellow hair had turned to grey; 

With a single puff of the wind he was gone • . . 
Poor little Dandelion Man! 


[761 


WHERE I WANT TO LIVE 


G rown people 

Like places 
That are part town 
And part country; 

But I like all country, 
Six miles away, 

Where there is no school 
And where 
I can have chickens, 
Pigeons, and ponies, 

And everything. 


[ 77 ] 


BUTTERCUPS 


O NCE upon a time there was a King who 
behaved very haughtily toward his 
subjects. His horses, dogs, and even his 
people disliked him. * 

He drank from a golden cup, which had the 
power to protect him from his enemies. 
One day he went out hunting, into a huge 
dark forest. In the midst of the forest was 
a pool of water on which a witch was sit¬ 
ting. The King behaved toward her as to 
his subjects. She was very angry, and said: 

Hokus! Pokus! 

Limbus! Lokus! 

Spread the path with trees , 

Raise a strong breeze , 

The magical cup 
And its owner seize; 

Then sail up , up> up , 

Away to Fairy Land , 

My little elves , 

Tell the Queen yourselves 
Of his rude action to us. 

The elves obeyed, and soon the King was 
before the Queen of Fairies. 

[ 78 ] 


BUTTERCUPS -(Continued) 


Hokus told the story, and as he spoke the 
haughty King was turned into a frog and 
hopped away. 

The Queen then touched the magic cup with 
her wand and it became a yellow flower. 

“Does it not look like butter?” said Limbus. 

“I shall call it the buttercup,” said the Queen. 

Buttercups have been growing in meadows 
by the hundreds ever since. 


[ 79 ] 


SUNRISE 


A LL is dark. . . the stars shine brightly . . . 
A streak of pink pierces the black of the 
sky; 

As it widens, the stars seem to fade into 
it. . . . 

It forms a path for the Sun 
When he starts on his journey 
Across the sky. 

The cock crows, the sparrows chirp, 

The robin’s song is broken 
Only by the crow's harsh caw . 

The sleepy earth shakes its head and rubs 
its eyes.— 

All it sees is the bank of white clouds in the 
east . . . 

They form a snowy mountain in the sky. . . . 
The Sun tumbles over the silver cloudy cliffs 
In a spray of light 

Like a foaming torrent leaping from rock to 
rock. 


[ 80 ] 


MY FARM 


/. The House 

I HAVE a farm . . . 

A little brown cottage 
Enfolded in a blanket of climbing vines . . . 
The grassy front yard is bordered with violets, 
And a great oak spreads its leafy boughs 
To shelter it all from the sun’s heat. 


[ 81 ] 


MY FARM 


II. The Field and Pasture 

N EXT to the cottage is a lovely field, 
A field of waving hay. 

It glistens like gold 
In the summer sun. 

The air carries the sweet scent 
Far and wide over the green pastures 
Stretching far behind it, 

Where the two goats graze 
While their kids play about them, 
Running and jumping 
And rolling about in the grass. 

Their neighbour, the black horse, 

Takes dinner with them, 

Her colt, like the kids, 

Playing around his mother. 


[ 82 ] 


MY FARM 


III . The Woods 

T HERE are woods on my farm 
Where the hickory trees grow 
And the squirrels in their branches 
Hop to and fro, 

Happily chattering as they gather the nuts 
And store them in their hollow trees. 

A cool brook tinkles near by . . . 

Why doesn’t its tongue get tired? 

It is forever chattering and laughing— 

It tells me about the things it has seen: 

It has seen the fairies dancing, 

And has seen the animals raise their fami¬ 
lies. . . . 

But, when I touch the tinkling brook, 

It fades into the air beneath my hand— 

For my farm is but a lovely dream, 

A wonderful castle in the air. 


[ 83 ] 


ON FIRST SEEING THE WASHINGTON 
MONUMENT 


A MONUMENTAL shaft of white 
Does high above the city rise, 
Seen afar by day and night 
Towering to the skies. 


1841 


BOOTS 


B OOTS was a kitten of gray 

With a shirt front and shoes of white; 
He was far too dignified to play, 

But just loved to fight. 

Once Boots ran away 

And couldn *t be found for a night and a day. 
When he came home, his coat of grey 
Was covered with soot and dirty clay. 

So we will say good-bye to this naughty cat 
Who ran away a night and a day, 

Who steals and does such things as that, 
This naughty, naughty kitty cat. 


[ 85 ] 


THE STORM 


K ING Neptune was churning the sea— 
His white horses were prancing . . . 
The Sea King was angry . . . 

The waves were dancing 

As dark cloud ships floated in the sky. 


[ 86 ] 


THE OCEAN WAVES 


T HE ocean waves come rolling in . . . 

They mumble and rumble. 

Perhaps like witches 
They are mumbling charms. 

You can see through their green skin 
As the army of witches charges and retreats. 
Each one’s long flowing white hair 
Is blown all about by the strong winds; 

Their wicked eyes gleam 
As they rush into battle. 

When they hit me, they knock me down; 
When I slap them, they splash in my face. . .. 


[87] 


BOATS 

Written in acknowledgment of a toy launch 


M Y little boats are sailing, 

Little boats called thoughts 
Sailing to one who sent to me 
One of my pretty boats. 


I THINK IT IS A DREADFUL THING 


I THINK it is a dreadful thing 
That mothers die 
And leave their children 
When they need them so . . . 

I do not mind 
If you go away 
And stay 

In a place where I can come to you . . . 
But please, 

Mother, 

Do not leave me 
And never come back. 


[89] 


AUTUMN LEAVES 


T HE autumn leaves are dancing— 
They are light as the fairies 
Dressed in their new dresses, 

All red and yellow and orange, 

That Autumn gave to them. 


[90] 


THE FAIRY'S BOAT 


B Y a pond 

A red rose grew, 
A petal fell off 

When the wind blew. 

To a lily 
It did float, 

Looking like 
A little boat. 

Out of the lily 
A fairy stepped, 

Into the crimson 
Boat she leapt; 

They sailed around, 
Around, around 
Until the petal 

Was old and brown. 

Then the wind blew 
The petal up, 

And the fairy flew back 
To her lily cup. 


[91] 


WILD HORSES 


W ILD horses are roaming 

Over the Western prairies . . . 

Their leader prances ahead, 

His sleek sides shining,. 

His tail trailing the ground. 

He does not want to be caught, 

To have a saddle on his back, 

Or a cart behind him. 

He likes to run wild and free 

Over the prairies with a band of his kind. 

He wants to be his own master, 

To go and come 
Whenever he wishes. 


[92] 


AUTUMN 


O CTOBER’S walking over 
Her carpet of gold 
With her friend, Jack Frost, 
Whose breath is so cold. 
Little clouds are playing 
About the blue sky 
As the blustering winds 
Hurry by . . . 

Calling so loud 
That each cloud 
Sheds a tear . . . 

Autumn is here! 

Autumn is her el 


[93] 


MOTHER’S DAY 


S HE is treasured more than gold, 
She is kind and very wise; 

I am glad I have a.mother 
With brown hair and hazel eyes. 

I never can be too grateful 
For what she has done for me; 

There was never a person nicer 
In any way than she. 


[94] 


THE MAKING OF OUR CLOTHES 


T HE spinning wheel is going around 
With a busy hum — hum — hum! 
Making thread for you and me 
And for every one. 

The shuttle is working busily, 
Humming like a bee, 

Weaving cloth to make the clothes 
Worn by you and me. 

Mother's hands work quickly, 

As in and out the needle goes, 

Sewing the cloth together, 

Making us our clothes. 


[95] 


SKY PICTURES 


HE clouds are like angel’s wings, 



1 Soft and feathery . . . 
The trees look like black lace 
Outlined against the sky: 
Back of them 
With wings outspread 
Is an angel about to fly. 


[ 96 ] 


THE CLOCK 


I. 


HAT a wonderful thing is the clock, 



VV Always saying: “Tick, tick, tock . . . 
You better go to bed, it’s nine o’clock . . . 
Tick-tock, tick, tick, tock.” 


II. 


What a strange thing is the clock; 

It doesn’t wash its face, and yet is never 
dirty. 

How does it know when to say, 

“You had better go to school, it’s almost 
eight-thirty”? 


[ 97 ] 







THE SEA AND SKY 

Eleven Years Old 












THE BLACK CLOUD 


T HIS morning 

I saw a great black cloud 
In the eastern sky . . . 

With a wreath of yellow sunshine round it 
Like the wings of a black butterfly 
In a garden of daffodils. 


[ 101 ] 


A STORM 


I. 

T HE sun is blotted 

By a great black cloud; 
A peal of thunder 
Rolls over the sky 
Like a giant cart wheel 
Falling down stairs; 

The terrifying sound 
Makes all the world tremble. 

II. 

The lightning flashes 

In one long thin line of light. 

III. 

Like many little soldiers 
With tiny pattering feet 
The rain beats down 
Upon the brick-paved street. 

IV. 

The sun is shining brightly, 

The thunder has ceased to roar 
The lightning has quit flashing; 
Now the storm is o’er. 

[ 102 ] 


THE SUN'S BEDTIME 


T HE sky is pink with the glow of the sun 
As he goes to his bed in the west; 

He has worked so hard all day long 
He surely has earned his rest. 

Perhaps he sleeps in the heart of a rose 
Which unfolds its petals in the sky; 

And in creeps the sun at the end of the day 
And soon is asleep in his bed so high. 


[ 103 ] 


THE FAIRY BANQUET 


U P came the moon, 

Down went the sun, 

Out peeped the twinkling stars 
One by one. 

They kept their watch 
O'er the meadow fair— 

Trees and buttercups 
Were blooming there. 

Each shining buttercup opened wide, 

And out of each a fairy stepped.— 

You see, these little buttercups 
Were where the fairies slept. 

One had long golden curls; 

Her tiny slippers were white and clean; 

Her gauzy wings were long and pink;— 

She was the Fairy Queen. 

All night they danced and sang and ate 
To the light of the fireflies in the meadow and 

sk y 5 

Twinkling and flashing and flying about, 
While the stars kept their silent watch on 
high. 


[ 104 ] 


THE FAIRY RANQUET-(c^//W) 

The moon and stars began to disappear; 

The sky turned light and the sun came 
up . . . 

With shouts and cries each fairy flew 
Back to her buttercup. 


[1051 


A JUNE MORNING 
HE robins sing, 



X The sparrows chirp, 
Trees are nodding 
In the summer breeze. 

The clouds overhead 
Are snowy white, 

Like feathers floating 
In the sky. 

Roses fill the air 
With their scent; 

The world hums with happiness 
’Tis a morning in June. 


NIGHT ON THE BAY 


/ T was night. 

The clouds in the east were purple, 

The moon was rising . . . 

It went behind a cloud, 

Where it shone, 

Giving the world a reddish tint. 

The water lapped on the shore 
With a soft rippling sound. 

The moon burst forth . . . 

It made a pathway across the water 
Of its glorious light. 

The mass of clouds began to separate 
And take shape . . . 

They became men, birds, animals, and reptiles, 
Jumping, running, flying, creeping.— 

They all went down the watery path. 

A game then began— 

Everybody moved according to his own fashion. 


[ 107 ] 


NIGHT ON THE BAY— (Continued) 


Suddenly a black hand 
Descended out of Heaven; 

It closed over the purple figures: 

Then the moon, clouds, and water 
Were swallowed up in the darkness . . . 
A grey mist appeared in the east— 

It was dawn! 

Night was over . 


[ 108] 


SEAWEED 


W HERE does seaweed come from? 

Who planted the grass of the ocean? 
Perhaps some lovely mermaid 
Has a garden on the bottom, 

And the strong and restless waves 
Washed the long, flat, green grass,— 
Washed it to the shore, 

Where the children of the land 
Laugh and play with it 
As did the daughter of the ocean 
Who first planted all the seaweed. . . . 

Do the children of the waters 
Long for their strange green toys? 

Do they cry when it is washed upon the 
shore? 


[109] 


PHOSPHOROUS 


T HE sun slowly sank in the west, 

The moon took her silent watch in the 
heavens 

And poured her light upon the sparkling 
water. 

As I plunged my hand into the salty waves, 
I felt something soft between my fingers: 

It was a jellyfish! 

As I touched it, it shone abroad 
With a soft green light like a candle's. 

There are many of them shining far and near. 
Are they the water fairies' lanterns? 

When lifted from the water, 

They are jelly-like and shapeless; 

But when dropped into the ocean, 

They look like many tiny hairs. 

Paddling and waving they wriggle through 
the water— 

The tiny fireflies of the sea. 


[HO] 


WHITE CAPS 


G IANT waves and baby waves 
Roll in and break on the sand, 
Sending up a cloud of milky spray. 
Never resting, 

Never hurrying, 

They play together. 

Far away I can still see them, 

All coming closer and closer to me. 
Each wave, large or small, 

Wears a white cap. 

All the ocean is covered 
With tiny white dots.— 

They are all snowy foaming caps. 


[mi 


A DROP OF WATER 


A GIANT wave 

Broke on the sand, 

A drop of its spray 
Fell on my hand. 

I watched the little drop of water 
Take off his foaming cloak; 

Then sitting down upon my hand, 
He turned to me and spoke. 

He said: “I come from far-off"lands; 
I've floated in a cloud on high; 

I almost touched a star one night, 
Playing in the sky.” 


[112] 


A SHELL 


VXTHAT is stranger than a shell— 

» V A shell that always seems to be 
Whispering and telling me 
The secrets of the sea? 

What is lovelier than a shell? 

From pink to blue and then to brown 
The colours change like mother-of-pearl 
As in the sun I turn the shell around. 


[113] 


JACK RABBIT’S ADVENTURE 
J WAS a warm and sunny morning . . . 



JL The green marsh reeds were waving, 
Whispering to each other. 

Then they were softly thrust aside . . . 

A small brown face looked out between them. 
There was a dry scaly rustling— 

A dark striped head appeared. 

The great brown eyes looked frightened . . . 
The little face was gone! 

There was a tiny white spot 
Bobbing in the distance; 

The body of a snake followed the dark head,— 
A water moccasin wriggled through the 
grass. . . . 

On and on went rabbit and snake; 

Nearer and nearer the water snake came to 


Jack. 

With a long hiss, the reptile struck—and 


missed! 

One instant later, and Jack was safe in his 


'nest. 


[114] 


BEES 


T HERE are many flowers in the woods, 
And over each flies a bee. 

They hang in the air on fairy wings 
And sing buzzing songs to me. 

All year they work to make honey and comb, 
And make bees’ bread to keep them alive; 
At the end of a year, after all their labour, 
Men come and rob the hive. 


[115] 


QUESTIONS 


W HERE was I before I was born? 

Where will I be after I die? 
Who made the maker of you and I? 
What is gravity that holds me down? 
Why can't I leap into space and fly? 

These questions no man can answer, 

For who saw the Creator made? 

Who has seen the beginning of gravity? 
And who has come back after being dead? 


[116] 


THE SUN’S HELPERS 


I FOUND a clearing in the woods— 
There were trees on all sides . . . 

Their branches met over my head, 

And kept out the sunbeams: 

But it was not dark— 

It was lighted by yellow butterflies. 

Perhaps the sun sent them on earth 
To light the places his rays could not reach. 


[117] 


THE BULB 


I FOUND a brown ball, ugly and rough; 
Slowlyl turned it round and round. . . . 

“Give me stones to steady my roots, 

Give me water to drink, 

And you shall see growing 
A lovely flower whose fragrance fills your 
home— 

A flower whose beauty penetrates all darkness 
As the sun shines through a break in the 
clouds.” 


[ 118] 


I’VE COUNTED MY BEADS 


I 'VE counted my beads one by one: 

In this book they are strung . . . 
According to colour and kind they stand; 
But now I come to the end of my strand 
Of Blue Beads and Amber. 


[119] 











































































































































































































































































































































